Perhaps Benjamin Franklin, with our facilities, would have been very near the ideal editor.  There was nothing he did not wish to know; and no one excelled him in the ability to communicate what he found out to the average mind.  He came as near as anybody ever did to marrying common sense to literature:  he had it in him to make it sufficient for journalistic purposes.  He was what somebody said Carlyle was, and what the American editor ought to be,—­a vernacular man.

The assertion has been made recently, publicly, and with evidence adduced, that the American newspaper is the best in the world.  It is like the assertion that the American government is the best in the world; no doubt it is, for the American people.

Judged by broad standards, it may safely be admitted that the American newspaper is susceptible of some improvement, and that it has something to learn from the journals of other nations.  We shall be better employed in correcting its weaknesses than in complacently contemplating its excellences.

Let us examine it in its three departments already named,—­its news, editorials, and miscellaneous reading-matter.

In particularity and comprehensiveness of news-collecting, it may be admitted that the American newspapers for a time led the world.  I mean in the picking-up of local intelligence, and the use of the telegraph to make it general.  And with this arose the odd notion that news is made important by the mere fact of its rapid transmission over the wire.  The English journals followed, speedily overtook, and some of the wealthier ones perhaps surpassed, the American in the use of the telegraph, and in the presentation of some sorts of local news; not of casualties, and small city and neighborhood events, and social gossip (until very recently), but certainly in the business of the law courts, and the crimes and mishaps that come within police and legal supervision.  The leading papers of the German press, though strong in correspondence and in discussion of affairs, are far less comprehensive in their news than the American or the English.  The French journals, we are accustomed to say, are not newspapers at all.  And this is true as we use the word.  Until recently, nothing has been of importance to the Frenchman except himself; and what happened outside of France, not directly affecting his glory, his profit, or his pleasure, did not interest him:  hence, one could nowhere so securely intrench himself against the news of the world as behind the barricade of the Paris journals.  But let us not make a mistake in this matter.  We may have more to learn from the Paris journals than from any others.  If they do not give what we call news—­local news, events, casualties, the happenings of the day,—­they do give ideas, opinions; they do discuss politics, the social drift; they give the intellectual ferment of Paris; they supply the material that Paris likes to talk over, the badinage of the boulevard, the wit of the salon, the sensation of the stage, the new movement in literature and in politics.  This may be important, or it may be trivial:  it is commonly more interesting than much of that which we call news.